


The Ones on The Computer

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds something on the computer that he finds really, REALLY disturbing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ones on The Computer

Room 12, the Lazy Daze Motel

xxxxx

"When did we last do any laundry, Dean?" Sam's voice drifted over the edge of the bed as he grovelled around on his hands and knees for abandoned socks.

"Uh-huh," came the response.

"Dean, your socks are disgusting," Sam's snorted. "This one's stuck to the floor; when was the last time you washed these things?"

"Uh-huh."

Sam's head appeared, prairie-dog-like from behind the bed. "Dean?"

"Uh-huh."

Dean was sitting at the table, staring intently at the laptop, utterly engrossed.

Sam watched him, puzzled. It wasn't like Dean to become this absorbed in any kind of research and, well, that certainly wasn't Dean's 'porn' face, Sam was relieved to note.

"Dean, we really need to go and do the laundry."

"Uh-huh."

"So, what, I'm going on my own then?"

"Uh-huh."

"Dean, are you listening to a single word I say?"

"Uh-huh."

"What are you looking at, dude?"

"Uh-huh."

"Busty Asian Beauties?"

"Uh-huh."

Sam snorted. "There's a wendigo under your table …"

"Uh-huh."

"Dean Winchester wears women's underwear …"

"Uh-huh."

"And high-heels, but only at weekends …"

"Uh-huh."

Sam scratched the back of his neck and huffed; "Dean, you might want to think about blinking sometime soon."

"Uh-huh."

Shaking his head in resignation, Sam sighed, pulling the laundry bag over his shoulder, "I'll get food while I'm out."

"Uh-huh."

"So that's celery sticks with a humous dip then?"

"Uh-huh."

Sam shrugged, "I'll be a couple of hours," and headed out of the door taking one last perplexed look at Dean, who was still staring mesmerised at the screen and still hadn't blinked.

xxxxx

The laundry took longer than Sam thought. It seemed that Dean's rancid socks were too much even for the laundromat’s industrial strength washer, which broke down halfway through the run, leaving Sam waiting forlornly for an engineer.

As a result it was dusk by the time he struggled irritably back to the motel room with one massive overstuffed bag of clean laundry slung over his shoulder and two bags of chinese food. After a less than enjoyable afternoon, he was not thrilled to find the door locked.

He hammered on the door. "Dean, open up."

When no response was forthcoming, he peered through the grubby net curtain; the room was in darkness. "Dean," a bit less aggressively this time, "let me in."

Still no response.

Sam could feel himself starting to get concerned. Dropping to his knees, he pressed his nose to the window glass, squinting to see through the grime and the net curtain. He wasn't entirely sure, but through the darkness he thought he could see a lone figure sitting on the floor leaning against the far wall.

He sat back on his haunches, chewing his knuckle in thought. He had to get into that room.

With Sam's skill and the questionable quality of the door, the lock proved mercifully easy to pick, and he cautiously pulled the door towards him, snaking his head and neck around the edge of it. Sure enough, in the gloom, he could just make out a figure sitting on the floor huddled into the far corner of the room.

It was hugging a rifle.

It was Dean.

xxxxx

"Dean?"

Sam took a step through the doorway towards his brother, hearing a scuffle and a whimper as Dean pressed himself further into the corner.

"Dean, it's me," he called softly; "Sam."

"S-Sam?" The response was strained and cautious; "Sammy?"

"Hey Dean, what's wrong?" He stepped carefully across the room towards his brother's shadowy form, switching on the light as he went.

"No, no, NOOO!" Dean cried out, flailing arms dropping the rifle; "switch it off, they'll find me … SWITCH IT OFF!"

Sam spun round and switched off the light. "Hey man, what's wrong? Who'll find you?" He picked his way across the darkened room, to crouch down next to his brother.

"They will," gasped Dean, reaching out and clutching the front of Sam's jacket; "the ones on the computer."

Sam blinked twice. "The ones on the computer? Who on the computer?" He grabbed Dean's cold, trembling hand, "c'mon dude, talk to me; who on the computer?"

Dean looked up at him, saucer-wide green eyes drifted from Sam's face across to the laptop still sitting innocuously up on the table.

"Them," he whispered, pointing at the offending item as if it was about to leap off the table and bite him.

He looked back up at his brother. "Sam, they want me dead. You should see the things they want to do to me …"

"Who?" gasped Sam in exasperation, "WHO?"

Dean tucked his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

"The fan fiction writers, Sam," he shuddered, as if the image was too horrific to contemplate; "The fan fiction writers …"

xxxxx

Now it was Sam's turn to forget to blink. He scrubbed the heel of his hand through his hair and fished around for any words that seemed appropriate.

What actually came out was "uh?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose he counted to ten; "Dean, have you been drinking?"

The cowering heap that was Sam's brother tore his glance from the window momentarily.

"No Sam, I have not," he looked thoroughly offended.

"My life is in danger here,” he snapped; “I'm at risk of dying an appallingly violent death, and all you can do is accuse me of being off my face.”

Sam gripped his brother's sweaty hand, struggling not to smile. "Dean, don't you think you're overreacting, just a tiny bit?"

Dean looked indignant, as well as panic-stricken; a not-inconsiderable feat.

"Overreacting?“ he spluttered; “overreacting? Well, excuse me! When I come staggering through that door with a pickaxe stuck in the back of my head, and my freakin’ spleen in my pocket, will you still think I'm overreacting then?"

Both brothers were silent for a moment.

Sam cleared his throat; "you really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" whispered Dean nervously, glancing toward the door and reeling Sam in by the front of his jacket.

"Well …", Sam hesitated, he really didn't believe he had to explain this to his supposedly streetwise big brother.

"Well, you see, they only do this – um – because they like you," he trailed off.

xxxxx

Dean looked at him, wide-eyed. "Like me?" He croaked; "LIKE ME?" His mouth worked soundlessly like a stranded goldfish, "well, they've got a friggin' funny way of showing it."

He glared at Sam, "In the stories I looked at, they stabbed me in the kidneys with a toasting fork, smashed my ribs, gave me pneumonia, had me laid up in bed with a temp of hundred and friggin’ seventy-nine or some crap like that, and then had Bobby removing my appendix in the back of the Impala with a penknife and an ice-cream scoop."

He hyperventilated briefly; "they're giving me major abdominal surgery, dude; my innards are all over the internet. Sam, these people are describing parts of me that I've never seen!"

Sam only just managed to stifle a snort of laughter.

"Sammy, if they like me, God forbid; I would hate to get on the wrong side of them. They're freakin' psychotic."

Nodding sagely, Sam tried hard to arrange his features into a sympathetic frown.

"And don't even get me started on how they describe me,” Dean continued; “I cry, and I hug, and I whine; I hug you, Sam – YOU! I let you wash me and give me medicine and don't even punch your lights out!"

Sam gagged slightly at the image of washing his brother.

"Sam, they make me sound like a pathetic, wussy, steaming great GIRL."

By now, Sam was biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing, he tasted blood.

"In one of the stories," Dean snorted, "I even whimper … have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? When was the last time you EVER heard me whimper?"

Glancing at his watch, Sam hesitated; he didn't think 'ten minutes ago' was exactly what Dean wanted to hear.

"It's not a sound I am capable of making," Dean moaned. Sam could have sworn it sounded exactly like a whimper.

xxxxx

Sam shook his head incredulously. "How many women have you been with, Dean?" he asked.

"Mind your own business, pervert," was the response.

"Then how can you be so out of touch with what they think?" Sam continued.

Dean stared at him like he was speaking fluent Martian.

"Their minds aren't exactly top of my priority list, Sam," he snapped; "I'm far more interested in their …"

"DEAN."

Sam took a deep breath. "You see, it's kind of a 'woman-thing'. They like to nurture and care for people, and if they, um, really like the person they're caring for, they sorta get a kick out of doing it; a REAL kick – if you get what I mean."

"Yeah, well, I'm happy for them to fawn over me as much as they like,” Dean muttered sulkily; “why have they got to maim me in the process?"

Dean clearly didn't get it.

"Well, think about it Dean, I mean, the broken ribs, the pneumonia, the fever, the appendicitis; these are all conditions that, um, require the removal of a large amount of clothing."

He hesitated to see if the penny was showing any signs of dropping.

Dean stared at him, vacantly wide-eyed.

When it became clear the penny was staying well and truly put, Sam let out a frustrated sigh and ploughed on, manfully … "I mean, no fangirl on-heat is going to get palpitations strapping up your sprained ankle, are they?"

“Nothing wrong with my ankle," grumbled Dean, "it's a very nice ankle; they both are."

He looked up at his brother, "so, are you telling me, my pain and misfortune is the perverted fantasy of a huge number of hormonal women?"

"Well, not quite", replied Sam, "it's just that the more sick or hurt you are, the more … er … hands-on they can be helping you to recover."

CLANG! … The penny dropped resoundingly.

Dean stared at Sam, and silence reigned between them. The air was filled with nothing but the hiss of a sudden downpour outside.

Dean eventually spoke.

"Ah."

A 50 megawatt grin spread across his face … "Wow!"

There was a short pause, "Sam, are you telling me that cyberspace is full of women wanting to molest me back to health?"

"Well, uh, yeah!"

Dean suddenly looked like all his birthdays had come at once; then his smile faded.

He looked around, bewildered, "Sam, why am I sitting on the floor?" He gathered up his rifle, "and why the hell are you holding my hand?" Dean shook off Sam's hand like it was toxic.

They helped each other up, "and why is our dinner sitting outside in the pouring rain?"

Sam realised he had left the newly-washed laundry and two bags of chinese food outside when he had dashed into the room to attend to Dean.

"Oh dammit," Sam yelled and leapt across the room to open the door. The laundry was sodden and the food was a waterlogged mess. They both stood in the doorway and stared.

"You know," said Dean, clapping his brother on the back, "seeing as you've educated me today, I'll go out and get dinner, again." He slipped his jacket on; "anyway Samantha, you forgot the beer; can't rely on you for anything."

"Dean, you can't go out there, it's pouring down, you'll get soaked." Sam grabbed his sleeve.

"Well too bad; I'm hungry, there's no beer, and who knows, I might catch myself a nice juicy dose of the 'flu." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "then you can call in that cute little blonde chick on reception."

Dean grinned before disappearing out into the rain.

xxxxx

End


End file.
